SteaMim Under Pressure
by Mad Possum
Summary: It's 1903, and the wanted fugitive Miriam Possible is on the lam. Will an innocent Possible lie back and accept this fate? What do you think? MiGo proto-KiGo , eventually. Rated for possible language and to be safe
1. Chapter 1

**Notes: **This fic is in response to a challenge over on KP Slash Haven, and involves, eventually, two adult women in a consenting relationship. If that's not your type of stuff, rest assured you have been warned. My illegible scrawling has been whipped into shape courtesy of the Beta-ing skills of the inestimable Mr fFordesoon, and the title was suggested by the ever-inspiring Love Robin. Reviews always eagerly welcomed; hell, flame if you want to, but be aware I'll just ignore it and carry on, so it would just be a waste of your time writing such an attack.

A knowledge of the events of the episode 'Rewriting History' would be pretty useful, since it's a story about Miss Miriam Possible and the woman referred to by Bartholomew Lipsky only as "Miss Go". If you haven't got a clue what I'm talking about... well, you'll probably patch it together soon enough.

**Disclaimer: **See the title in the internet browser you're using? See that bit where it says "Stea-Mim Under Pressure Chapter 1, a Kim Possible **fan**fic"? Now, if I owned Kim Possible & Co., would I be writing a _fan _fic? No. No I would not. As such, you can probably guess that I do not own Kim Possible or related characters, which are the property of their creators and the Walt Disney Company, no infringement of copyright is intended or should be inferred**. Now that that ground breaking revelation is revealed, on with the story...**

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_12__th__ of October, 1902_

Go City Women's Prison was an imposing building; unlike the smaller Middleton Correctional Facility, which was composed of a series of brick buildings in a heavily guarded compound, the GCWP was a large stone construct that looked more like a fort built to keep people out than a facility in which people were kept.

Miriam Possible swallowed nervously as she followed a guard through the interior of the building. Her scalp was itchy under the blonde wig she wore, and peering through the thick spectacles perched on her nose made her healthy eyes feel strained, but it wasn't as if she had a choice. She was, after all, a fugitive.

Yes, Miriam Possible – investigative journalist _par excellence_, well-regarded amateur sleuth, and local feminist icon – was on the run from the law. Following the events of the Tri-City Expo in Middleton, Miriam – or Mim, as she liked to be known – had been forced to flee when accused of stealing a German scientist's invention, the Electrostatic Illuminator. She wasn't guilty, of course, but fate had not been kind to her that night. She now faced imprisonment, and Mim was _not_ about to go to prison for something she hadn't done.

So, for the past 4 months, Mim had been living in exile, and her brisk walk through the intimidating corridors of the Go City Women's Prison was a very good reminder of why she had endured the living hell that had been the past few months. To go from the safe, comfortable, loving surroundings of her family and friends to the life of a wanted fugitive had been nothing short of pure torment for the poor redhead.

As such Mim had desperately sought to clear her name, regularly exchanging telegrams with her best friend Jon Stoppable under an alias, each working ceaselessly to prove Mim's innocence. But since the real culprit had seemingly vanished from the face of the earth, it had so far proved impossible to clear the reporter's name.

Mim's guide stopped by a small door, and turned to the disguised fugitive.

"She's just in here, Ms. Bly. You have fifteen minutes, and then I'm afraid you'll need to leave. Prison policy."

Mim smiled. "That should be plenty, thank you... I assume our conversation will not be monitored?"

"As per your request, ma'am, yes," the guard replied, unlocking the door and pushing it lightly. He lazily scratched his greasy beard as it swung open.

The room that lay beyond wasn't large, but it gave the illusion of far greater space because it was almost completely bare. There were only four things in the entire room; a table, two chairs, and the reason Mim had risked this trip back into the Tri-City area.

It had been complete luck; Mim had become a journalist because she loved to read the papers; she loved the idea of hunting down the truth and capturing it in a prison of perfectly turned phrases. Ever since she had first learnt to read, Mim had been reading the papers, and even in exile a daily news journal was always on hand. On the 4th of October, Mim had, as usual, bought a newspaper, and had spent the evening in her small lodgings (half the price for the room, and half the price for no questions asked) by the light of an old gas lamp reading the paper.

It had been a small article, sharing a page with a dozen other unimportant pieces of news, but what had drawn Mim's eye was the photograph, or, more specifically, the subject of the photograph. A pale-skinned woman with a mass of black hair tied up in a knot, in a style rather similar to Mim's own; a woman Mim had last seen dangling from a hot air balloon. The article detailed how this woman, named as "Sheridan Gomez", had been arrested in Go City on charges of theft, and was awaiting trial in Go City Women's Prison.

Mim had immediately set about making arrangements for her journey to Go City; this Sheridan Gomez was the only link she had to the moustachioed man that had been behind the crime of which Mim was accused, and she was determined to catch him. Hopefully, when she revealed the role Sheridan had played in the crime, Mim would be free to set out in pursuit of the man without fear of arrest.

As Mim stepped into the room and heard the door close behind her, however, she found herself wondering how exactly she was going to persuade this criminal to help.

Sheridan Gomez was lounging back on the wooden chair she occupied, inspecting her fingernails as if totally oblivious to the woman being ushered into the room; but when the sound of the door once again being locked echoed through the bare room, she swung the chair forward, the two front legs making a loud click as they came back into contact with the floor, and fixed Mim with a Cheshire-cat grin.

"You really should take those glasses off, kitten; they don't suit you."

Off all the greetings Mim had been expecting, that hadn't been one of them. She stopped halfway between the door and the chair, squinting through the thick lenses at the smirking brunette.

"E-excuse me?" she asked. Sheridan leaned forward, .

"Oh, and the wig, peaches, it looks ridiculous."

"I-I... I don't know what you are talking about, Ms Gomez." Mim replied, pulling herself up and trying to look haughty.

Sheridan's grin vanished, and she leaned back again.

"In that case," she said coldly, "you had better hope that that _ridiculous_ wig stays on your head." She took a deep breath, obviously meaning to sic the guard on Mim.

"Wait!" Mim held up a hand, and was relieved to see Sheridan pause, arching a thin eyebrow, but holding the breath, ready to shout in an instant. Reluctantly, Mim raised her hands to her head, and pulled off both the glasses and the wig. When she focused again on Sheridan, the grin was back on the pale woman's face.

"That's better," the prisoner remarked, as the now unmasked Mim sat down in the empty chair. "Now, let me guess... you're in disguise because your backwater's local flatfoot stitched you up for my crime?"

Mim didn't answer, but she didn't have to; her face flushed red. That was all the confirmation Sheridan needed, and her smirk seemed to widen as she leaned forward and continued: "And in your _adorable_ little attempt to clear your name, you've tracked me down in order to hand me over to the authorities?"

Mim suddenly found her purpose again, and a small smile of triumph touched her lips.

"Exactly."

Sheridan snorted in disbelief and leaned back again, tipping her head back to gaze at the ceiling.

"Typical. And just when I was starting to think you might be interesting."

Once again, Mim was left speechless at the attitude of the woman before her. When she found her voice again, she inquired,

"Interesting? I'm here to prove my innocence, not to provide you with-"

"And what on _earth_ makes you think accusing me is going to do you even the slightest bit of good?" Sheridan answered almost angrily, snapping her gaze back to the redhead. "It's just your word against mine, and if you've already been accused by that fool Demenz, then it's your word against mine _and_ his. In any case," Sheridan seemed to calm down again, and glanced once more at her fingernails. "I was in Europe at the time, so I couldn't possibly have been involved."

"You... you... what?!?" Mim demanded, pushing herself to her feet to tower over the seated Sheridan, "You were in _Europe_? That's... that's..."

"Exactly what a rather rich friend in Spain will say if anyone asks," Sheridan replied, voice now bored. "What you're asking me to do is move from one prison to another and from one charge of attempted theft to two, and, quite frankly, I imagine that the sewing and laundry routine in Middleton is more or less the same as it is here, so I don't see what's in this for me."

"_In_ it for you?" Mim parroted, still aghast at the foul woman's attitude. "There is _absolutely nothing_ 'in it' for you! You're a criminal! The entire justice system is in place to make sure that there is never _anything_ 'in it' for you!"

"So you'll understand if I'm not chomping at the bit to participate in that system's fun and games," the brunette deadpanned. Mim just stared at the infuriating woman, unable to believe how utterly she had lost control of the conversation, when Sheridan cocked her head and eyed Mim with a speculative gaze; "However..."

"However?" Mim asked, cautiously, sitting back down opposite Sheridan.

"However..." Sheridan echoed, and then paused until she could see Mim about to prompt her, at which point she cut in again, "..._if_ you were to, say, get me out of this little slice of purgatory, I might be persuaded to take you to Lip-" Sheridan cut herself off, biting her lip, before continuing, "... to my previous companion in sin."

"You mean to the man in the hot air balloon," Mim said, more a statement than a question, as she carefully stored away the first syllable 'Lip', for future reference.

"Precisely," Sheridan smirked, "and I'd be putting my glasses and hair on at this point were I you."

For what seemed like the hundredth time that day, Mim gaped at the woman sitting across from her. The words sunk in after a moment, and she grabbed at the fob chain that led to her pocket watch. She snapped open the half hunter and saw that she had about thirty seconds before the guard returned for her. In a panic, Mim threw her wig haphazardly on and scrabbled on the table for her glasses. As she finally pushed the thick spectacles up onto the bridge of her nose, she felt something tugging at her hairpiece. She squinted through her disguise and saw Sheridan leaning over the table, carefully pushing loose red hairs underneath the blonde wig.

"Remember," Sheridan said, her voice low and serious, "get me out of here, and I'll get you your criminal."

The sounds of a key scraping into the door's lock echoed through the room once again, and in an instant Sheridan was back, lounging in her seat, the front two legs off the ground, examining her fingernails once more.

The guard opened the door slowly and stepped into the room.

"I'm afraid your time's up, Ms. Bly," he said politely but firmly.

"Of course." Mim smiled at the man, even though the presence of a uniformed official brought back some of the nervousness she had felt upon arriving at the prison. She stood up, casting a single glance back at Sheridan, who didn't acknowledge the presence of either Mim or the guard, and walked back through the door, and was escorted back to the outside world.

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_17__th__ of October 1902_

The weak moonlight did little to light the rough road outside Middleton, and the dull headlamps of the automobile didn't greatly lift the shadows either. The driver kept their speed down, careful now that the once straight highway began to wind through the woods and fields of the countryside, all the while keeping an eye out for a figure in the darkness.

The car crossed a small brick bridge, and the trees on either side crowded around the road, eclipsing even the meager moonlight. At that instant, a beacon of light shone out of the shadows. As the Mercedes 35HP approached the light, the driver slowed until the car came to a stop.

As the handbrake was pulled, the shadowy figure in the driver's seat turned to look at the bearded face revealed by the handheld gas lamp that had signalled the car.

"Jon," Mim sighed in relief; finally, after more than seventeen weeks, she was able to lay eyes on someone from her past life, and she couldn't have hoped for a kinder face to greet her.

"Hello, Mim," Jonathan Stoppable replied, smiling. His smile faltered somewhat as his eyes adjusted to the light and he saw the rumpled blonde wig sitting on the seat beside Mim. It was a reminder of the cruel circumstances that now forced Jon and his greatest friend to skulk in the shadows like frightened squirrels.

The meeting had not been easy to arrange; a flurry of telegrams and even a hushed conversation over a telephone, from Mim in the Go City Palace Hotel to Jon in the Middlton Police Station, had been needed to coordinate the meeting. Now that they had met, neither seemed entirely sure what to say. Eventually, Mim spoke.

"Do you have any news? Of my family? Of Middleton in general?"

Jon shook his head with a wry smile.

"Nothing new since your last telegram, Mim. Or the eight before it." Jon knew the redhead well enough that he could imagine the slight blush gracing her cheeks. He decided to spare her any embarrassment by continuing, lifting the briefcase he held and holding it out to Mim. "These are all the papers you'll need."

Mim reached out for the case, then paused, her hand hovering mere inches from it.

"Jon..." she asked, uncertainly, "... are you sure about this? I'm risking enough as it is without adding your work and possibly your liberty to the list."

"Take it," Jon answered firmly, pushing the briefcase the few further inches until the handle brushed Mim's palm, "and don't worry about me; all the paperwork is done perfectly, and you know what Barkin is like with paperwork." Jon cracked a smile at the redhead.

As Mim took the case, she returned Jon's smile, but like Jon's, her smile held more than a hint of sadness. Neither knew when they would next meet, or even _if_ they would. As Mim shoved the briefcase into her rented car, she could see Jon fidgeting slightly where he stood. When she stood back upright, Jon burst out;

"For Christ's sake, Mim! Just give me one hour, and I'll be back here ready to help do whatever it takes to clear your name! I can--"

"No," Mim cut in, quietly but firmly. She shook her head at Jon; "Jon, I can't ask you to drop your entire life to help me out of a jam. I can't, and I won't," Mim's voice became softer and she prayed Jon would see reason. "I don't trust Ms. Gomez an inch, but I have no choice but to follow her, because she's the only person who can lead me where I need to go. And if she leads me into the middle of the wilderness instead and flees, she'll leave me with nothing but an ever-increasing list of charges against my name and no hope of ever returning home. I could never... God and all his angels could not force me to put you through that, Jon."

For a moment, Jon looked like he was going to argue, but then his shoulders slumped, and he chuckled humourlessly.

"There really is no changing your mind when you're set on something, is there, Mim?" he asked, shaking his head. Mim smiled slightly.

"Not this time, Jon."

"And you know you just need to send a telegram and I'll be anywhere in the world in a flash?"

"I know. Thank you." What Mim wanted to do was get out of the car and embrace her oldest friend, but the desire was beaten down by two decades of strict upbringing. Instead, she merely said, "I'll send you any news. Just make sure my parents are alright?"

"Of course," Jon nodded. "Goodbye, Mim. Just... sort everything out soon. As you always say, Anything is Possible..."

"... for a Possible," Mim finished with a smile. "Goodbye, Jon... and, again, thank you."

Jonathan Stoppable stepped back from the road as Mim began to turn her automobile to once again face towards Go City and away from her home. As Mim started her journey, she kept glancing over her shoulder back at Jon, until the lone man extinguished his lamp, plunging her into darkness once again.

**********

_18__th__ of October 1902_

Papers were shifted, keen eyes examining each page. Mim watched Elizabeth D. Smith, Superintendent of Go City Women's Prison, leaf through the documents Jon had given her.

"This is highly unorthodox," the Superintendent said, eyes scanning the papers, and Mim fought hard against the instinct to squirm in her seat.

The documents Miss Smith was scrutinising were orders for the transfer of a prisoner. More than that, they were for the transfer of one Sheridan Gomez to the Middleton Correctional Facility, due to an ongoing investigation into the events of the Tri-City Expo. The most 'highly unorthodox' aspect of all, however, was that the slight, blonde-haired, bespectacled Ms. Bly was to oversee the transfer.

The superintendent glanced up at 'Ms. Bly'; the woman looked, in her opinion, like a scruffy barn owl. The distorting effect of the round lenses made her worried green eyes look twice their size, and if that mess of blonde hair had seen a hairbrush in the last week, then Miss Smith was a leprechaun. Even assuming Ms. Bly was carrying a weapon about her person, Ms. Smith doubted she could aim straight should the prisoner attempt a getaway.

On the other hand... Sheridan Gomez was a nuisance. She taunted the guards and her fellow prisoners indiscriminately, and when she had been placed with the other inmates during the period in which the prisoners used their sewing skills on mailbags, Gomez had stitched some quite, _quite_ unladylike words into the fabric.

And the paperwork _was_ all correct...

"However, I'm sure this Barkin man knows what he is doing," Miss Smith continued, tapping the papers on her desk before turning to her assistant. "Have Ms. Gomez brought here immediately."

"Yes ma'am," the assistant nodded, and left the office. Mim felt herself relaxing in relief, as she thanked fate for the thousandth time that Inspector Barkin was in the habit of just signing all the papers Jon put in front of him.

"Am I to assume you are with the Pinkertons, or the like?" Miss Smith asked Mim, bringing her back to the present.

"Oh... not quite," Mim answered, then cringed internally when she realised she had just invited more questions.

"Hmm," Miss Smith replied, but thankfully didn't follow up; as far as she was concerned, if it meant getting rid of Gomez, she would hand the felon over to a French Gendarme, as long as the paperwork was in order. The prospect of washing her hands of the prisoner made her feel generous... or at least generous enough to offer a warning.

"Ms. Gomez is... a difficult prisoner. I trust you've brought some... aid?"

"Um... oh, of course," Mim answered, thinking of the horse drawn cab, with Mim's luggage already loaded on board, waiting near the prison's main entrance.

"Good," Miss Smith muttered, and the pair lapsed into silence again. The superintendent flipped through the papers, finding those that required her signature, and signed them eagerly, before wordlessly pushing them across the desk for Mim to scrawl an utterly illegible moniker in the few places she was required to.

As Mim lifted the pen from the last signature, the office door opened and a pair of guards walked in, a handcuffed Sheridan Gomez between them. She glanced disinterestedly at Mim, face not bearing a spark of recognition, and turned back to face the superintendent.

"Ms. Gomez," Elizabeth Smith intoned, "I am hereby turning you over to the custody of Ms. Bly, for transportation to Middleton Correctional Facility."

"Oh joy, oh rapture unforeseen," Sheridan replied dryly, not deigning to look at Mim, who stood up from her chair.

"I assume I need not impress upon you the severe penalties that the United States shall impose upon you should you attempt to escape custody, whether during transportation, or indeed after it?" Miss Smith continued seriously.

"And what if I try to escape custody right now?" Sheridan taunted, and the guards placed heavy hands on each shoulder, despite the fact that the woman hadn't moved. "Oh," Sheridan smirked, "right."

"Ms. Bly," the superintendent turned to Mim, "as of this moment, Ms. Gomez is in your custody." A key, presumably to Sheridan's shackles was held out, and Mim accepted it. "I sincerely hope your journey is a safe one, as you'll soon discover that a _pleasant_ one is entirely out of the question."

Mim smiled and thanked the woman before turning to face Sheridan. The two guards stepped back, and Mim gestured to the door, and Sheridan walked out, throwing a farewell over her shoulder;

"Nice meeting you, Lizzie. Choke on something terrible for me, won't you?"

The superintendent's eyes narrowed slightly, but she said nothing.

Mim quickly followed as Sheridan took the lead and wordlessly strode to the main entrance. The guard, who had been told to expect the pair, calmly stood aside as Sheridan walked out into free air.

"Is that your cab, 'Ms. Bly'?" Sheridan asked, nodding to the trap that stood waiting.

"Yes," Mim replied tersely, certain that everything had gone far too smoothly and that any moment now she would hear a dozen uniformed men come running to arrest her.

No such cavalcade was forthcoming, however, and the pair climbed into the cab unmolested. As Mim gave quiet directions to the driver, Sheridan sat down and began to work on her shackles. By the time Mim closed the door and sat down herself, the restraints fell off of Sheridan's wrists with a clatter. Mim stared, wide eyed.

"How... why..."

Sheridan, predictably, smirked.

"Trick of the trade, kitten. Now tell me, how does it feel to be a criminal?"

"Horrid," Mim scowled, "I _definitely_ don't think I'll be making a habit of it."

"Aw, calm down, peaches," Sheridan replied, as the prison disappeared behind a corner, "after all; Ms. Bly is the criminal, and as of this moment..." with a sudden lunge, Sheridan grabbed the blonde wig from Mim's head, and in a smooth movement opened the door and proceeded to fling the object out into the street, even as Mim yelped an objection, "... Ms. Bly doesn't exist." Through the open door, Sheridan called new directions to the driver, who shrugged confirmation, before the escapee closed the door again. "And now, we're going to bring an end to Sheridan Gomez's existence, too."

Mim, who was now holding her arms over her head, and shrinking back from the cab's window, glared at Sheridan.

"You utterly... utterly... _insane_ woman! What the... I'm wanted for theft! And you just throw my disguise literally in the gutter!"

"Aw, calm down, kitten," Sheridan laughed, leaning back in her seat, "if I wanted to get you arrested, I'd have pulled the wig off in Lizzie's office. Look, I guarantee you won't be caught; you trust me, don't you?"

"No," Mim answered flatly, "I most _certainly_ do not."

"Good," Sheridan replied, grinning. "I knew you weren't a fool."

A pounding on the roof of the cab cut short Mim's answer, and Sheridan nimbly jumped out, turning back to say, partly to the driver, partly to Mim, "Stay right there," before disappearing into one of the houses lining the street.

Mim jumped up, preparing to follow, before remembering that she was now exposed in the middle of a city which her imagination populated with hundreds of policemen searching for her. Wracked with indecision, Mim paused, pushed by a desire to pursue Sheridan, pulled by an instinct to hide in the shadows of the cab.

Finally, Mim came to her decision, and dived from the cab, rushing to the door through which Sheridan had disappeared. As she did so, she almost collided with Sheridan coming the other way, resulting in an ungainly attempt by the pair to fit two people in a doorway which was rather narrow for one. In the close quarters, Sheridan smiled at Mim,

"Wow, peaches, and here I was thinking you didn't want to spend time with me."

Mim, who was starting to realise that there was little point in trying to scold the criminal for her taunting, spotted the small box Sheridan was carrying and answered,

"Well, how can I resist when you bring such nice gifts?" and promptly snatched the box from the thief's grasp. It was small, maybe ten inches by five, with an intricate rose bush carved over half of the box, the other half smooth; it looked like a jewellery box, for all intents and purposes.

Mim carefully opened the box, and found a bundle of papers and a small fortune in bank notes. She shifted her gaze to stare accusingly at Sheridan. "Let me guess; more proceeds of your criminal undertakings?"

"Why, kitten, how you misjudge me," Sheridan answered, pulling the papers out, but leaving the money in Mim's possession. "Sheridan Gomez has never so much as looked at that money; this all belongs to Sheryl Gow." Sheridan tapped the papers, which, upon closer inspection, were all either proof of identity or hand written bank statements, each bearing the name 'Sheryl Gow'. Sheridan grinned at Mim's confused expression; "I told you I was going to end Sheridan Gomez's existence."

Mim frowned at the irrepressible woman, and snapped the box shut, hiding the money, and, realising that she and Sheridan, or whomever the damn woman was, were still uncomfortably close, stepped back out of the door, and commanded,

"Just get in the cab."

"At once, your highness," Sheridan mock bowed, walking calmly back to the cab. "Train station, please," she directed the driver, who nodded as his passengers climbed in, before cracking the reins and setting the cab in motion.

"Train station?" Mim asked, as Sheridan took the box from her, and set about quickly counting the money it held.

"Indeed," Sheridan said, not looking up. "If you want to catch Lipsky, we need to get the first train possible to California."

"Lipsky?" Mim asked, jumping on the name, "Is that the man you were working for?"

"Oh no, kitten," Sheridan laughed, "I wasn't being paid enough to count it as work. I was aiding Lipsky; Bartholomew Lipsky, to be exact."

"And what about you?" Mim countered, "What do I call you... to be exact?"

Sheridan shook her head,

"Oh no, peaches; I'm not giving you my real name, just for you to put me on a wanted poster as soon as we turn Lipsky in; Sheridan is as good a name as any."

Mim nodded, knowing it was the best she was going to get at this point, and stuck her hand out.

"Mim Possible," she said formally, "and no jokes about the name, I've heard them all a thousand times already."

"Heh, I liked 'kitten' better anyway," Sheridan answered, shaking the proffered hand. "I'm guessing the pleasure is all mine?"

"Well it's definitely not mine," Mim answered with a wry smile, before settling back in her seat. "So Lipsky is in California? That's a long journey."

Sheridan chuckled.

"If you think California is a long way away, the trip we're about to take is going to look like a regular Odyssey."


	2. Chapter 2

Okay: first off, sorry for the huge delay! I can at least say that I'm commited to finishing this: there's 100,000 words of it written on the KP Slash Haven, although it is raw stuff compared to this finish product. Part of that is thanks to Messers. Ffordesson and KenZero/Celestialdoggie, who have offered their services to make this mess legible, and in parts quite more palatable than before. And for those wondering why it is labelled as a "Kim P. & Shego" fic, it's because there aren't tags for "Mim P. & Shego's Edwardian Ancestor Know Only As Miss Go"!

**Important Note: **starting in this chapter, I've got a couple of footnotes: * is just a translation, in case it is needed, while the numbered footnotes (e.g. **(1))** are historical ones. Feel free to ignore them if you want, but thought I should mention that they are more than typos! Footnotes are at the bottom in bold.

The disclaimer from the first chapter still stands, I own nothing, so, with that in mind, I hope you enjoy the second chapter...

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_27th December, 1902_

_My dearest friend Jonathan,_

_I hope my letter finds you well, that your selfless acts of October have not brought unforeseen consequences to bear, and that my telegrams from Manila and Singapore have reached you. While I yearn for news of home, my dear travelling companion continues to thwart my attempts to learn our destination. I can only hope that we are nearing our goal, for Miss Gow has at least deigned to reveal to me that we shall not again be boarding a steam ship until we are ready to return to the United States._

_Ah yes, my noble cohort. She remains all but insufferable, and my prayers that the eighty-five degree heat coupled with the near ceaseless downpour of the monsoon__would subdue her devilish spirit have not only gone unanswered, but have been decisively revoked. The poor weather seems to have positively empowered the woman, in fact; she left me huddled in our cabin while she set about cheating our fellow passengers out of their wealth in a series of card games which can only have been rigged. No honest gambler could sustain such a winning streak as my guide achieved._

_We finally made Calcutta on Christmas Eve, and swiftly found lodgings. Calcutta is truly a city that never sleeps; the ceaseless sounds of activity_ _that kept me too long from my sleep almost made me recall the cicadas of Singapore with fondness._

_I had expected Christmas Day to be the most miserable of my life, but when I awoke and saw the 'City of Palaces', as it is known, in the full light of dawn, I realised that there was far too much I wished to see and experience to leave any time for misery. I had expected the nearest church to be filled with Englishmen and little else, but found men and women from all across the world worshipping within; many native Indians singing English hymns in their remarkable accents, a single Chinese trader with a long opium pipe, Egyptian and South African merchants, using even Christmas morn to fight for every ship bound for Europe and America to make port in their homeland, even French and German dignitaries were present._

_As I wandered the streets, I found a small crowd around a half-naked Indian man, his head covered in a turban and neat beard, who played some sort of native flute in front of a wicker basket. As we watched, a serpent reared out of the receptacle, and began to sway with the music. The creature opened a strange hood-like attachment to its head, and seemed hypnotized by the musician. I can only assume that this viper was the legendary King Cobra__**(1)**__, yet the people did not seem at all alarmed to see such a deadly creature all but loose on the streets of a metropolis; I have included a rough sketch of the scene with this letter._

_Everything is so different from home. Even the grand buildings are strange; some, such as the General Post Office and the High Court, appear as if lifted from the streets of London, but the grand Gothic style of these structures is no less astounding for it. Then there are the great Indian buildings, their style as alien to me as the ceaseless heat of their climate, such as the beautiful temple on the river, which I was told is called the Dakshineswar Kali temple. Finally there are the strange hybrids, the western façades decorated with Indian patterns, like the Marble Palace. In between these marble monuments and mansions, there lie low dwellings and shanty towns. Even the roads are marvellous contradictions; some paved and lined with wrought-iron electric lamps, others little more than dirt paths delineated by refuse and lacking even a burning torch to light them in the dead of night._

_My sketchbook is already quite full; should I ever return to writing for the Middleton Gazette, I shall have some truly amazing articles to publish._

_Tomorrow, I hope to discover more of the folklore and beliefs of the people of the city; if they are even a tenth as rich as the architecture and people, then I fear that a lifetime may not be sufficient to devote to their study._

_But know that even as I explore this strange new world, my thoughts are never far from Middleton, my family and my friends. I pray daily that I may soon be reunited with you all._

_Yours with deepest affection,_

_Mi_

Mim lifted her pen from the paper and sighed. She had gotten so caught up in describing her adventure to Jon that she had almost forgotten the reason she had embarked upon it in the first place. Should she fail to bring this Lipsky character to justice, then it would not be in Jon's best interest to possess correspondence from a known felon. Mim gave a resigned sigh, then finished her signature:

_Michelle Probable_

As Mim set about placing the letter and a few sketches into an envelope, the door to the small suite opened and Sheridan stepped in. She looked utterly different from the plainly clad woman Mim had 'delivered from purgatory' (as Sheridan liked to refer to it). Mim had been horrified at the sum her travelling companion had spent in California, but the money had kept on being supplied by the banks as Sheridan had handed over her 'Sheryl Gow' papers, and Mim had to admit that the decision to replace the heavy cotton clothes they had been wearing with the lighter linen outfits had been a godsend in the tropical heat.

The most recent addition to Sheridan's wardrobe was a very wide-brimmed hat, which she insisted was the fashion, but Mim remained convinced that it was a testament to the woman's vanity that she wore the ridiculous accessory to maintain her pale complexion beneath the Indian sun.

"Is Her Highness all done sightseeing?" Sheridan asked, strolling over to where her trunk lay, proceeding to open the luggage and pack all of her belongings that lay within arms' reach.

Mim felt a momentary surge of disappointment that she wouldn't have more time to study Calcutta, but it was quickly overwhelmed by her natural curiosity.

"I thought you said we were finished travelling?"

"Oh, no, Peaches; I remember precisely what I said, and what I _said_ was that we were finished with _sailing_," said Sheridan, shaking her head and chuckling at Mim's naivete. "I thought you reporters were supposed to be _observant_."

Mim's eyes narrowed, and her lip twitched, but she said nothing.

Seemingly oblivious to Mim's seething rage, Sheridan continued unabated. "Now, we've got more than a thousand miles left to go, and I managed to get tickets for a train to Delhi—at utterly ludicrous prices, I might add; some big pow-wow there this week."

"And this Lipsky is in Delhi?" Mim asked.

"No. From Delhi we'll get another train to Lahore, then to Peshawar."

"And Lipsky is in Peshawar?" Mim tried again.

"Come now, Kitten," Sheridan chuckled as she stood, stretched, and made her way into the small twin bedroom of the suite before calling back, "I know you're a reporter, but can you stop playing the Spanish Inquisition?"

"So we have to pack everything now?" Mim asked, ignoring the question, although a part of her mind replied silently 'Maybe if you told me where we're going... and what you're planning when we get there.'

"Precisely," Sheridan answered the redhead's vocal question. "The train leaves at five."

Mim pulled out her pocket watch and snapped it open. She blinked a few times.

"You... do mean five _tomorrow_ morning?"

"No, five this afternoon," Sheridan answered nonchalantly.

Mim looked back at her watch. Four thirty-three. She stared a few seconds longer before jumping upright with a strangled noise.

"Half an hour!?" she shouted, "To pack everything, pay for the hotel, _and_ get to the station?"

Sheridan walked back into the room with her arms laden down with her belongings from the bedroom.

"Calm down, Kitten; you've really got to learn to relax," she taunted, then she returned to packing her trunk. "I've already paid the hotel, sent one porter for a cab, and another will be up to help with the luggage in ten minutes," Sheridan half-turned to shoot Mim a smirk. "Plenty of time; as you so often insist on informing me, anything is possible..."

Mim returned the smirk with a glare of pure venom, struggling for a moment with an urge to forcibly remove the hateful expression from Sheridan's face. Forcing the feeling down, Mim instead leapt to her feet and bounded through the bedroom door to begin packing, only to turn around again with a muffled curse, having forgotten her papers and various writing utensils. Once she had gathered these up, she made her way back to the bedroom, and her own trunk, as quickly as possible.

As soon as Sheridan was certain that Mim was out of sight in the other room, she picked up her speed terrifically, shovelling her belongings into the trunk with little care for their condition. She really was cutting it rather close with the timing, but there wasn't another train to Delhi until the next day; the fact that she could get under Mim's skin was just a very... satisfying bonus.

By some miracle, in the same second that Mim forced her trunk closed, a knock on the door signalled the arrival of a porter. Mim walked out of the bedroom towards the suite's door, and saw Sheridan, lounging on top of her own trunk, once again inspecting her fingernails, although now that she was a free woman, Sheridan was able to file away imperfections she found. Once Mim had passed, Sheridan, as quietly as possible, tried to bounce up and down surreptitiously on the trunk's lid to force it closed, and as soon as she achieved that result, she clicked the clasps closed, managing to time the click exactly to Mim's opening of the door. With a silent prayer, Sheridan stood up, and was relieved when the packed trunk didn't burst open without her weight to hold it down.

Five minutes later, the pair were sitting rather uncomfortably close together in the rickshaw that had arrived for them; two of the hand-pulled contraptions had arrived, and since it was blatantly impossible to safely fit both woman and trunk on the seat of either one, Mim and Sheridan were now next to each other in the lead rickshaw while the second carried the two trunks, balanced precariously on top of each other in the seat.

Fortunately for Mim, having shared twin bedrooms with Sheridan on the steam ships they had travelled to India on board, and again in the Calcutta hotel, she didn't feel too uncomfortable with the proximity. Mercifully, Sheridan seemed to be willing to allow the journey to pass in silence, allowing Mim to try and commit the city to memory.

The rickshaws made good progress, proving surprisingly nimble as they dodged knots of people and market stalls jutting into the street, until they turned onto a main carriageway and were met with a remarkable sight.

A caravan of perhaps a dozen elephants, each with a howdah high upon its back, and maybe a score of horsemen accompanied by thirty or so Indians on foot, was slowly making its way toward the two rickshaws. In each howdah sat a pair of Europeans, sometimes a man and wife, sometimes a pair of British officers or officials, all of them with an Indian in front of them guiding the Elephant from its back, and a second behind, holding sun umbrellas over the white men's heads; some of the men were still holding expensive hunting rifles in their hands, while others lounged luxuriously with sparkling drinks.

As the first elephant passed by, Mim saw a long, still-raw scar along its flank, and saw the creature was limping slightly. She looked up at the towering beast with its thick grey skin, and wondered what sort of creature could inflict such a wound. She didn't have to wait long to find out.

As the Indian bearers behind the elephants drew level with the rickshaw, Mim saw that many of them were arranged into pairs, each pair bearing a long pole between them, borne on their shoulders, and hung by its legs from the first pole was the corpse of a magnificent animal; a great cat, striped vividly in orange and black, lips now eternally curled back to reveal sparkling white, long, razor sharp teeth. The animal was at least eight feet long, and must have been a terrifying creature to meet when it was alive.**(2)**

As the procession passed, Mim counted four tigers, three cheetahs and a dozen deer carried by the bearers. When the last horseman had passed them by, Mim turned excitedly to Sheridan, to be greeted by an unexpected visage; Sheridan was staring straight ahead, jaw tight, face paler than normal, brow furrowed in a scowl, breathing heavily through her nose. When she felt Mim's concerned gaze, she blinked and turned to stare at the other side of the street, and muttered,

"Bastards."

Mim was shocked; not only at the language (she had known that Sheridan had few inhibitions with words, but she had never heard her swear so foully before), but also by the incredible venom in her tone. In their two months together, Mim hadn't heard her pale guide express anything in her voice other than amusement or boredom, but here she sounded as if she was wishing every member of that hunting party a thousand eternities in hell.

"E-excuse me?" Mim asked timidly. Sheridan whirled back round to face her, and in their close proximity Mim was astonished to see what could only be traces of tears in her companion's eyes.

"You heard me! They're bastards!" Sheridan returned, far louder than the first utterance. "Those scum think that just because they have money and guns, they have the right to shoot anything that moves!" Mim recoiled slightly from the outburst, but now that Sheridan had started she didn't seem inclined to hold in, "They buy their rifles, recruit dozens of assistants, and set out in parties a hundred strong to hunt down some poor solitary animal whose only crime is to be more beautiful than the entire race of man could ever hope to be. And why? Because the creature is 'wild!' Those small, scared men on top of the elephants – look at them! They can handle beauty, oh yes – as long as it's docile and subservient, as long as they can control it! But if they ever come across something pure and real, something they can't understand, then they call it 'wild' or 'savage' or 'uncivilised!' And they sit and watch like cowards as their men senselessly butcher the most majestic creature any of them have ever seen, and they go back to their sprawling estates and they boast about it! That's what galls me most of all; it's not self defence, it's not competition for food, it's nothing but something to crow about over dinner! Yes, they're bastards!"

Mim's mind had almost shut down in the face of the rage Sheridan was projecting, but her automatically reasonable soul tried to put things in perspective.

"Are they really that different from hunting parties back home?" she asked.

"No," Sheridan replied, in that same low, venomous tone, returning to glaring out at the street before them. Mim opened her mouth, curious and slightly shocked by the thief's fervent attitude, but closed it again as Sheridan added, as if to herself, "Tigers should live in the jungle."

The pair spent the rest of the journey to the station in silence, Mim digesting her first unscripted exposure to her companion's emotions.

The two rickshaws arrived at the station with a couple of minutes to spare, and a pair of Indian porters jumped from where they had been lounging by the station entrance to grapple with the two trunks, and while Mim handed the two drivers payment, Sheridan displayed their tickets to the two porters, who nodded and once again called Sheridan "Memsahib*" before dashing off to their train.

As the two American women made their way through the station, pausing for a moment as Mim slipped her letter into a post box built into a wall, it became apparent that there had been no need to hurry to the station. Their train sat silently on the rails, with a few occasional glimpses of movement in the shadowed interior of the carriages... except for the final carriage, that is, at the opposite end to the engine.

This carriage was a hive of activity, with British soldiers, each in crisp, clean red coated uniforms, buttons all firmly closed despite the heat, pith helmets shining white rather than the usual khaki colour, standing at each entrance. While their turn out looked ceremonial, the Martini-Enfield rifles they held were real enough, and despite their shine, the bayonets were sharp. White officers and immaculately dressed civil servants moved freely in and out of the carriage, which was festooned with flags, predominantly the flag of the British Raj**(3)**; a Red field, with the Union Jack in one corner, and the coat of arms of the Order of the Star of India displayed proudly, although several normal Union Jacks were also present.

As Mim and Sheridan moved to board one of the less ostentatious carriages, they heard a commotion from the station entrance; turning, they saw their second procession that day.

This one was composed entirely of men on foot, and a single woman. The three figures leading the procession were surrounded by more pristinely uniformed soldiers, while a dozen more uniformed officers and civil servants followed. The lead figure was a tall man with dark hair rigorously oiled back and a stern expression borne with an arrogance that could only come from a man whose family had occupied the highest reaches of society for generations. He was dressed in an expensive suit, dark frock coat covering a golden waistcoat and black cravat. Beside him, the lone woman strode to keep pace with the leader; her dark hair was tied back in fiercely controlled curls, clad in an outfit that was as expensive as it was opulent. The final member of the trio walked a few paces behind the other two. His liquid grey-blue eyes and combed-flat hair gave him a detached, uninterested quality, his true expression hidden behind a flawlessly maintained moustache.**(4)**

As the group approached the decorated carriage, Mim felt Sheridan insistently poke the small of her back, forcing her to proceed onto the train. As she entered the sweltering interior of their own less ostentatious carriage, Mim turned to Sheridan.

"Who was that?" she asked curiously.

"My guess is, it was the Viceroy; he's the most important man in India, so you'll forgive me if I don't wish to draw the attention of the man."

Logically, Mim knew that the chance of the guard of the Viceroy of India knowing the identity of a pair of Go City's least infamous criminals was nil or less, but logic didn't play any part in the slight chill that ran down her spine.

Mim subconsciously picked up her pace along the corridor, and after a few seconds felt a slim hand yank on her shoulder, bringing her up short.

"Hold your horses, Kitten, this is our stop." Sheridan smirked and opened the small door at which they had stopped to reveal a tiny room, maybe ten feet by five, with a curtained window. Their two trunks rested beneath the bunk bed beside one wall, each a kind of cot to ensure that passengers didn't fall out should the train round a sharp corner in the middle of the night.

"Well, this is... cosy," Mim smiled nervously, suddenly feeling claustrophobic despite her previous experiences of sharing accommodation with Sheridan.

Sheridan grinned, and sat down on the lower bed.

"I'd have gone with 'sweltering'," she said, theatrically producing a handkerchief and dabbing her brow. "Well, we've got eighteen hours before we arrive in Delhi," Sheridan reached up and started to undo the elaborate fastenings of her dress.

"Wh-what are you doing?" Mim asked nervously. Sheridan rolled her eyes.

"Getting comfortable," she answered.

"C-can't you do that somewhere else?"

"Such as, Peaches?" Sheridan taunted. "We're on a train; there's no second room or bathroom to use, and if toilets on Indian trains are as I remember them, I refuse to inhabit those dysentery-ridden cesspools for one second longer than is absolutely necessary – and I am being stupidly optimistic, because we will be very lucky if dysentery is the worst threat that lies within. So, to answer your question, no, there is nowhere where else I can do this. Now then..."

Sheridan slowly slid the shoulder of her dress off, revealing inch after inch of smooth, pale skin along her shoulder and arm, and a glimpse of the top of her corset. Mim flushed bright red, and backed the short distance to the door.

"I-I-I-I think I'll just go and... and... and see where the dining carriage is!" she stuttered, before diving out of the room and heading along the carriage, Sheridan's laughter ringing in her ears.

_1st January 1903_

Sheridan suppressed a smile at the unending, infectious excitement that Mim was showing at everything that surrounded them.

The brunette had planned to stay in Delhi only as long as it took to find the next train to Lahore, but Mim had insisted on staying for the grand event of New Years Day; the Delhi Durbar. The event was being held to celebrate the new British King, Edward VII, ascending to the title of Emperor of India. While Sheridan couldn't give a damn about what some European aristocrat decided to call himself, she had to admit a strong interest in the event.

Sheridan had travelled far and wide in her relatively young life, partly so that she could experience a respite from the suffocating atmosphere of her family's home in Go City, and partly so that her family could experience a respite from Sheridan's company; her father, who entertained hopes of one day holding the office of Mayor, had given up trying to estimate the sum of political donations Sheridan had cost him with her... _less-than-orthodox_ dinner table conversation.

As such, Sheridan had seen a great many things around the globe, but she couldn't think of anything to match the scale of what was happening on this plain outside Delhi. A small city of tents had been erected in the field, and everything, from hotels to restaurants to shops, was represented in the canvas town. A small, custom-built railway ferried people who couldn't find lodgings within the makeshift city – such as Mim and Sheridan – in from Delhi. The 'roads' between the tents were patrolled by policemen in a uniform specially tailored for the event, and when night fell, electric lights illuminated the crowded plain. Everything, from drains to stables, was present on a stretch of land that four months ago had been a wilderness. From one side, over the murmur of the crowd, strains of "God Save The King" drifted, while from the other direction, the faint notes of the less familiar (to the American duo, at least) Sikh music sounded; the entire settlement was teeming with festive atmosphere.

Mim was currently scribbling notes and sketches into her third notebook, having already filled the pages of two, and Sheridan found herself repeatedly having to grab the redhead's shoulders to steer her through the crowds of spectators as Mim herself stared at the latest sight to catch her notice; as such, Sheridan was not only acting as an impromptu tour guide but a pilot as well.

"So what are those horsemen doing?" Mim asked.

"Wha-- playing polo," Sheridan replied, deftly steering Mim between a Bombay lawyer and a Turkish journalist.

"And that bearded man with face paint?" Mim continued, pencil flying over paper.

"Which-- oh, a Sadhu, a Hindu holy man, or probably a beggar pretending around here," Sheridan pulled on Mim's left shoulder, spinning her away from a New York photographer trying to get a shot of the polo players.

"And how about--"

"Look, Kitten," Sheridan interrupted, pulling Mim to a stop, "I've been in India twice before, but I am _not_ a damned guide book."

"Oh, sorry," Mim started to blush, but her expression quickly disappeared as she caught sight of another marvel over Sheridan's shoulder.

Sheridan rolled her eyes as Mim pushed past her, before turning to pursue the redhead herself. Despite her mounting frustration at the shorter woman's ability to flit from one thing to another in a heartbeat, Sheridan had to admit that Mim's enthusiasm was infectious; she even felt a genuine smile tug at the corner of her lips as she forged through the throngs of people in the direction that Mim had headed.

She caught up with the redhead as Mim was standing beside a stretch of land upon which a group of Indian and British cavalrymen were tent-pegging**(5)**,while Mim attempted to sketch some rough detail of the various uniforms on display.

After a moment one of the riders, still on horseback, approached the pair; he was one of the Englishmen, resplendent in the blue uniform and heavy gold brocade, of the 11th Hussars, with wavy blonde hair beneath his cap and an easy smile. As he halted his mount before the two women, he pushed himself up the stirrups in order to execute a sweeping bow as he removed his cap. He flashed the pair a too-bright smile as he asked, "Might I be of assistance, ladies?"

Sheridan took an immediate dislike to the man; his smile belied his intentions. Mim, however, seemed to take the question at face value and immediately answered, even as she shifted so that she could make out the other cavalrymen behind the blonde officer. "Ah, yes, absolutely! Please, sir, could you perhaps tell me what is the point of what you're doing?"

The Englishman, still grinning winningly, turned his horse so that he was facing the other troopers and leaned from his saddle towards Mim, as he began to explain;

"It's all about control, you see, ma'am; a trooper has got to be able to put his sword point in the right place at full gallop. I've, ah, got something of a knack for it," the Hussar finished, in a tone that tried to convey modesty even as the words boasted his alleged prowess.

Sheridan eyed the Englishman distastefully; while Mim might be unaware of his designs, the brunette felt as if waves of lecherous intent were radiating from him.

It wasn't as if Sheridan objected to the man purely on those grounds; it wasn't as if she _cared_ whether some bored limey treated the annoying redhead like a floozy. She was just impatient to bring her time escorting the reporter to an end, and the quickest way to do that was to capture Lipsky, so any time Mim was... otherwise engaged was time wasted. That was all.

Meanwhile, the Englishman continued to talk, unaware that Mim, her pencil once again flying over her pad, was scarcely listening.

"A cavalryman has got to know his drill, you know, and be able to put his lance point square between the enemy's eyes. I don't _like_ to boast, but..."

At that blatant lie, Sheridan opened her mouth, but was cut off by a calm, aristocratic voice from just behind her shoulder.

"While I have no doubt, Mister Courster, that your woefully inadequate grasp of cavalry drill is most entertaining, might I suggest that you return to your practice, and leave these ladies in peace?"

The officer, now identified as Courster, turned in the saddle to face the source of the voice, and immediately the grin vanished from his face as he tried, still facing a completely different direction to his horse, to throw a fumbled salute, and answer with a garbled "Yes milord!" before cantering his horse away.

Sheridan, amused at the sudden loss of composure of the young man, turned to face the newcomer. The man she found was tall, gaunt, dark haired and possessed of a prominent aquiline nose to go with his upper class accent. What stood out, however, was his dress; while most of the Western men in the vast field were wearing either military uniforms, or the opulent white uniforms with plumed pith helmets of the staff of the Viceroy or in light, linen suits, this man was dressed in a dark suit that would have been at home on the streets of London, and in all likelihood had been tailored there too.

"That was almost amusing," Sheridan congratulated the man, who turned his brown eyes from watching the retreating Courster to look at Sheridan, his own ghost of a smile still in place.

The man's expression flickered as he finally took in Sheridan's face; for a split second, his brow furrowed, and his eyes flashed with... not recognition, but rather that which came just before recognition. In an instant, however, his calm appearance was back, and he answered,

"I suspect that you Americans have a bad enough view of we Brits without having your thoughts compounded by men like Courster," the aristocrat bowed slightly at the waist, and introduced himself; "Randulph Fiske, Baron of Ashford, at your service, Miss...?"

Sheridan, rather than bow, held out her hand to Fiske, who, after a moment's surprise, took it, and as Sheridan shook, she replied, "Sheridan Gow," while carefully studying the peer's expression. While this time the man's face remained calm enough, Sheridan thought she caught a flash of something behind the eyes. Still carefully watching the man, she added, gesturing to the still engrossed reporter, "and this is Miriam Possible."

Mim turned at the sound of her name, and afforded Fiske his first clear view of the redhead. Sheridan, watching closely, felt a surge of... disappointment? Surprise? Even relief?... that the Englishman showed no sign of recognition, even deep in his eyes. Mim was a stranger to him, of that much she was sure.

"Excuse me?" Mim asked, gaze flicking confusedly between Sheridan and Fiske.

Fiske bowed his head to Mim and informed her, "I was just apologising to Miss Gow for my countryman's behaviour."

"His... behaviour?" Mim asked, confused. Fiske raised his eyebrows, carefully scrutinising Mim's face for any sign she was having a joke at his expense; finding none, he glanced at Sheridan, who shrugged.

"...Indeed," Fiske said dryly, before suggesting, "Perhaps you might permit me to make amends for Courster's indiscretion? Might I offer you a place within the Royal Pavilion?"

Sheridan studied Fiske carefully; the offer seemed gentlemanly, chivalrous, and very generous. As such, Sheridan didn't trust it... but even she, with her ever cynical eye, couldn't discern any of the devious intent she had sensed radiating from Courster; the request seemed to be nothing more than a courteous offer. Still, Sheridan wasn't--

"The Royal Pavilion?" Mim asked, wide-eyed. "Is the King here?"

"Alas, no," Fiske replied with a smile. "His Majesty cannot be with us... his brother, the Duke of Connaught, presides in his place, however."

"And you can gain entrance to his tent?" Mim continued, eagerly.

"I had the good fortune of attending Oxford alongside the Viceroy," Fiske assured her. "So, might I take it that you accept my invitation?"

Sheridan, given the choice, would have declined... but Mim wasn't prepared to give her such a choice, and leapt in, "Oh, certainly! Uh, I mean, it would be an honour."

"Excellent!" Fiske clapped his hands once and then produced a notebook and a pen from his coat and jotted something down. "Bates!" he called, and a short, broad-shouldered man who had previously escaped the duo's notice stepped out of the crowds winding through the tented city.

"Milord?" he asked quietly.

"Here, take this," Fiske instructed, ripping the new note from the pad and passing it to Bates. "I shall be escorting our American guests to the Royal Pavilion." With that, Fiske turned back to Sheridan and Mim. "Now," he said, with a smile, "shall we?"

As the trio wound their way through the crowds, the man identified as Bates looked at the note in his hand. In his master's handwriting was an instruction:

_Telegram, Arundel House_**(6)**_, London; information requests, Sheridan Gow, Miriam Possible_

Folding the paper in half, Bates began to make his way to one of the nearby telegraph tents.

***Memsahib: respectful Indian term of address for a European/Western woman, basically equating to "ma'am".**

**(1) King Cobras tend to be rather too large and far too dangerous for snake charmers to use, as well as living in very remote areas and being naturally shy; Mim probably saw a charmer using an Indian cobra, which is smaller and, while still deadly, not capable of injecting the same volume of venom as a King Cobra.**

**(2) Tiger Hunting in British India was big business; it was part of the mystique of the Imperial overlord that many upper and even middle class Britons bought into, as well as historically being a 'sport' of the ruling class of India. Shikars (shooting parties) were hugely popular, with the Indians accompanying them on foot carrying their own fowling pieces and joining in the 'fun'. They tended to be long expeditions, in order to track the animals, including as many as 30 elephants and their cargo. A Lieutenant William Price recalled one party which brought back "22 tigers, 5 bears and 81 hay-deer". This Imperial sport had a large part to play in driving the tigers (and many other great predators all across the world) to the brink of (or in the case of some, such as the Quagga in South Africa, into) extinction, and driving the Asiatic Cheetah out of India (fortunately, Shikars such as this were becoming rare in the heavily populated Calcutta region, and kills of that magnitude were even rare anywhere in India by the start of the 20th Century, although sadly not unheard of).**

**(3) The British Raj was the administrative area of the Empire that was also known as British India, although it encompassed what are now India, Pakistan, Bangladesh, Sri Lanka, Burma and even a colony around Aden, in what is now Yemen.**

**(4) This procession will have been that of the Viceroy; Lord and Lady Curzon, Viceroy and Vicereine of India, followed by Lord Kitchener, a man who would later gain immortal fame as the man in the 'Your Country Needs You' recruitment posters, but currently commander of the armed forces of the British Raj, and a man who was hungrily hunting for Curzon's position. Also, the Viceroy wouldn't tend to travel with the security I've described, at least not along the streets of Calcutta, but this is a special occasion (more to come next chapter). **

**(5) Tent pegging is a sport, and, back in this period and earlier, a show of martial skill, practised by horsemen. Essentially, it involves a galloping cavalryman using a lance (or other edged weapon, such as a sword) to pierce and lift a small object (such as, surprise surprise, a tent peg) from the ground without slowing their mount. While it looks very impressive, it is actually fairly easy once you have the knack (or so I am told by a friend, not being a horse rider myself).**

**(6) There doesn't seem to be any official organisation in Britain for espionage and intelligence before the 1907 Secret Service Bureau. Equally, the British government used spies long before that, so I have just given them a grand address in London, although I have no reason to believe any such organisation was based in Arundel House... mind you, I can't find what was in Arundel House in 1903, so you never know. **


	3. Chapter 3

As is becoming a habit, allow me to apologise again for the delay in posting. Hopefully it won't be too severe in future. And once again, Messers. Ffordesson and KenZero/Celestialdoggie deserve mention as beta-readers of the first order. Anyway, here is the first and probably only major historical event to be portrayed in this story (took too bloody much to write, even if that does sound defeatist). Once more, my apologies for the long wait.

Oh, and if you think some of the descriptions of the Delhi Durbar are over the top, try doing a Google Image search for "delhi durbar 1903": you can even find pictures of the elephant drawn carriage up there.

Once again, see Chapter One for the full disclaimer explaining the earth shattering fact that I do not, in fact, own the Kim Possible series nor the characters portrayed therein.

* * *

_1__st__ of January 1903_

Lord Fiske led the two American women through the crowds, until they were running parallel to the main highway through the canvas city. People were thronging around the pathway, which itself was lined by immaculately uniformed Indian soldiers, interspersed with the occasional white officer standing to attention as stiffly as any Buckingham Palace guardsman, as a show of the might of the Raj's military paraded before them, drawing cheers from the more patriotic of the crowd.

As such, Sheridan found herself once again piloting Mim around people, with the added burden of trying to follow Fiske, while Mim darted between gaps in the crowd to get a better look at the passing parade.

Fiske paused at one gap in the crowd and glanced behind him, and, noting that Mim seemed interested in the procession, he turned and waited for them. As Sheridan managed to steer Mim into the small breach in the throng, the cheering around them seemed to intensify yet further as a regiment of British lancers trotted in tight formation past the group. Their blue uniforms were, like the others on display, pristine**(1)**, from their polished stirrups, up past their distinctive flat-topped headgear, to the gleaming tip of their pennant-festooned lances.

"The 9th Lancers," Fiske informed the duo, an unreadable expression on his face as they passed to rapturous applause**(2)**. Mim had, by this point, given up on attempting to sketch down what she saw, and was instead scrawling out reams of notes. Even Mim's pencil, however, slowed down as the masses of people slowly quietened to near silence.

The trio, and indeed the entire crowd, turned to look down the highway, back towards the distant city of Delhi. Approaching them was another precession, but this one was very different to the massed soldiers that had come before.

A long procession of elephants was approaching, stretching back further than Mim or Sheridan could follow. Like the elephants of the Calcutta tiger hunt, each of the beasts bore a howdah on its back, occupied by both the mahout controlling the animals and by the masters of the group. Unlike the hunt animals, however, each elephant was draped in glorious finery and ornamentation.

The leading creature was surrounded by Indians in red ceremonial dress and white turbans, each carrying a pike. To one side, a mounted British officer kept pace, evidently commanding this honour guard. On the elephant's back sat an ornate howdah, set with gold and jewels, on top of the ceremonial cloth draped over the animal's back, which itself was a complex work of gold brocade. As the procession began to draw nearer, Mim recognised the woman sitting in the howdah as the lady they had seen in Calcutta train station, and guessed that, although his face was hard to make out between the bright sun and the dark shadows of his gleaming pith helmet, the man was none other than the Viceroy, Lord Curzon.

Mim's pencil tried to note every detail as her mind desperately attempted to commit the sight to memory, but any hope of remembering everything evaporated as the procession moved on. Dozens, scores, perhaps even hundreds of elephants were tramping along the dusty highway, each slightly different, some bearing British dignitaries, most carrying Indian Maharajahs and Ranis, each of whom was bedecked in collections of jewels and gold that had been amassed over centuries of rule. Mim was certain that some of the Sikh, Hindu and Muslim royalty that passed by wore more precious stones on their persons than the entire of Middleton society could amass. There was even, in the distance, a great carriage, easily the size of a house, pulled by a pair of the vast grey mammals.

"What are they all doing here?" Mim wondered aloud, watching wide-eyed as more of the procession filed past, escorted by honour guards dressed in bright, gold lined clothing.

"They've come to acknowledge their new Emperor," Fiske answered simply. Sheridan looked at the long lines of noblemen and royalty, then at the brightly attired soldiers lining the route, and their tired faces. She shivered.

"How hideously feudal," she said quietly.

Fiske, still watching the slow stream of pachyderms, shrugged.

"It works."

Sheridan shook her head silently, before muttering, "When something works, you don't need to dress it up in gold."

After a few minutes longer watching the pomp and pageantry of the parade of Rajahs and Nizams, Sheridan began to literally pull Mim away. Seeing the pair were ready to move-or at least one of them was ready to do the moving for both-Fiske continued to make his way through the mass of people.

Fiske led them to a grand pavilion**(3)**, at what seemed to be the terminus of the majestic parade. The pavilion was vast, and guarded by yet more perfectly turned-out soldiers. Rather than heading to the grand entrance, Fiske led the two Americans around the side to a smaller entrance, frequented by various servants carrying chilled drinks for those inside, and guarded by a further pair of immaculately dressed British guards. However, unlike the majority of soldiers, these two were lounging inattentively in the shade offered by the canvas structure's shadow. That quickly changed when Fiske stepped before them.

The first managed to leap to his feet, grabbing his rifle from where it was resting, and narrowly avoiding slicing his hand on the bayonet. The second was not so lucky, and fumbled for his weapon as he rose, but the gun slipped from his hands, and, in an attempt to capture it, the man overbalanced himself and fell back to the ground, even as his comrade fumbled a salute.

"Very impressive," Fiske said dryly. "No doubt His Excellency and His Royal Highness are resting easy knowing that you are keeping them safe."

"Uh, thank you, sir!" the first guard saluted again, evidently lacking any grasp of irony. Fiske rolled his eyes, before extending his arm to the tent flap.

"Ladies first," he smiled.

Mim and Sheridan pushed into the pavilion, and found themselves among a crescent of richly dressed Europeans, interspersed with wrought-iron posts that seemed to be more like ornate pillars than temporary tent poles. The tent itself was festooned with banners and pennants of the various Indian states and principalities, but all were subservient to the Royal Coat of Arms of Great Britain, hanging above what could only be described as a throne in the centre of the pavilion. Sitting in the throne was an ageing Englishman dressed in the scarlet jacket of a British Field Marshal, his chest covered in a glittering haze of medals and chivalrous orders. In the area before the throne, a Sultan in the glittering formal garb of the Muslim rulers of Karachi was reciting a speech that managed to combine the required implicit declaration of fealty with a call for great education for the Indian people**(4)**.

As the pair, feeling comparatively under-dressed among the opulent outfits of the courts of the Viceroy of India and the Duke of Connaught, Fiske appeared behind them, and deftly grabbed three glasses from a passing Indian valet, passing one to each of the Americans.

"Would I be right in thinking you are a journalist?" he asked Mim, sipping his drink.

"Oh, well, um, yes," Mim answered, before drinking herself. She almost gagged on the drink; "What IS this?"

"Gin and tonic water," Fiske replied smoothly, "originally served to the troops to fight malaria**(5)**. And which news agency do you work for?"

"Ah... I, uh, work for the Middleton Gazette," Mim answered, eyeing her drink sceptically, "but I'm not here for them..."

"Really?" Fiske smiled understandingly. "Just taking in the sights and sounds of the subcontinent with your friend?"

"Well, actually, we're trying to find– ow!" Mim was cut off by something hitting her shin sharply from the direction Sheridan was standing in. Mim glanced suspiciously at Sheridan, who met her gaze with total innocence. Mim turned back to Fiske; "... a man by the name of Lipsky."

Fiske looked at her with a politely blank expression, although he was repressing a grin at Sheridan's closed eyes expression of resigned disbelief. He had definitely made the right decision questioning Mim instead of Sheridan.

"Hmm, I'm afraid you have me at something of a disadvantage," he told the redhead, "I've not heard of the man... ah, what did you say his name was again?"

"Bartholomew Lipsky," Mim answered, unconcernedly, and Fiske carefully committed the name to memory.

Sheridan grinned politely at Fiske, as she gently grasped Mim's free arm.

"Excuse us just a minute," she smiled brightly, before tugging viciously on Mim's limb to pull her slightly away from the English peer. "What are you _doing_?" she asked through gritted teeth.

"... making conversation?" Mim replied, as though the answer was obvious.

"Ah. Right. Check," Sheridan said, "making conversation... about your background, the background of _someone wanted by the police_, and about Lipsky, another man who is _also_ wanted by the police, with an Englishman of whom we know very little save that he seems to be pretty firmly in with the local authorities, that is to say, _the police_!"

"Oh, come now," Mim scoffed, "what are the chances that some English lord in India will have heard of a pair of fugitives from what you yourself recently referred to as 'the sticks' in America? He's just being polite, as any good Englishman should be. You have at least _heard_of politeness, haven't you?"

Sheridan ground her teeth together.

"I thought you were meant to be the paranoid one," she muttered angrily, then spoke aloud: "And what about mentioning Lipsky? You didn't think that, just perhaps, he might have pulled stunts like that in Middleton in the rest of the world? The very fact that we're hunting him through India should have given you some semblance of a clue!" Taking a deep breath, Sheridan tried to calm herself, asking absently, "How exactly _do_ you 'report' in that backwater burg you're from? Do you just stride obliviously up to hulking grotesques standing over dead bodies with still-dripping knives and ask them very, very, _very_ nicely if they saw that awful murderer murdering anyone? _Think_, Mim, if only for _your_ sake!"

Mim, ignoring the last comment, paled slightly, but countered, "Well, it doesn't matter. You heard him, he's never heard of Lipsky."

"Well, he has now!" Sheridan snapped back, still trying to keep her voice low. She was interrupted from any further comment, by a voice from behind her, causing both she and Mim to turn to face Fiske again.

Fiske himself was turned to greet a newcomer; it was his voice they had heard.

"George," Fiske smiled, extending a hand.

"Fiskers!" the man answered, smiling warmly. Sheridan almost choked on her gin and tonic at the nickname. Well, at least now she knew why the man was clean shaven – imagine going through life with a nickname like 'Fiskers-Whiskers'...

Sheridan spluttered in her drink a second time at the thought.

The man who had approached Fiske was familiar to the two Americans; he no longer wore a dazzlingly white pith helmet, but his blue uniform was the same they had seen earlier, and his features were just as they were a few days ago in Calcutta. The only difference was that now he finally seemed to be smiling.

Lord Curzon, Viceroy of India, 1st Baron Curzon of Kendlestone, firmly shook Fiske's hand.

"Long time no see," he said.

"Well, you know how it is," Fiske answered, "what with South Africa and Rhodesia..."

Sheridan gently grasped Mim's arm and guided her quietly away from the two peers. The pair ducked out of the pavilion the same way they had entered, and once they were clear of the tent and surrounding palaver, Sheridan finally loosened her grip on Mim.

"You're not a fan of high society, I take it?" Mim asked, a smile dancing around her lips.

"Not when it's using nicknames like Fiskers, no," Sheridan answered with her own relieved grin. Then she sighed, grin disappearing. "Alright, Kitten, we had better make ourselves scarce before Fiskers and Georgie notice we're gone."

"What?" Mim asked, dismayed, "but there's so much more to see... there are fireworks, and balls, and–"

"Okay, Peaches, I get it," Sheridan interrupted, "you read the guidebook they sold you. It's just... Look, there's something about Fiske that doesn't sit right, okay? I'd rather have a few hundred miles between us and him."

"But he seemed to be a perfect gentleman," Mim answered, doubtfully.

"Yeah, Kitten, but _you_ thought that Hussar fellow was a perfect gentleman too... but... let's just put it down to women's intuition, alright?"

"But I'm a woman–"

"Thief's intuition, then," said Sheridan, grinding her teeth.

"Thief's paranoia, more like," muttered Mim, rolling her eyes and sighing. "Alright, but..." she conceded, trying to keep the crushing disappointment out of her voice, "... but can we at least leave it until tomorrow?"

"I don't–" Sheridan began, but the words hitched in her throat as her eyes met Mim's. "What... what are you..."

Mim, her lower lip pushed out and her eyes round, stared pleadingly at Sheridan.

"Just until tomorrow," she asked, her voice saccharine sweet.

"I... I..." Sheridan swallowed and tried to get herself under control. "If I say yes, will you stop that... that... THAT!" Mim nodded, carefully keeping eye contact. "Alright! Fine! Tomorrow!" Sheridan readily agreed, "just stop THAT!"

Mim grinned again as her face returned to normal. As she reached into her bag for the guidebook that they had indeed been sold at a ridiculous price, she added,

"Oh, and Sheridan?"

"Yes, Kitten?"

"Happy New Year."

* * *

Lord Fiske ducked out of the servants' entrance to the Royal Pavilion and looked around, eyes scouring the crowd. While he did not find the two women he was looking for, his eyes did alight on his valet, Bates, moving quickly towards him.

"Well?" Fiske asked impatiently as soon as Bates arrived.

"Only a quick reply, mi'lord," Bates answered, handing Fiske a piece of paper. Opening it, Fiske found the printed message:

TO R FISKE  
FROM ARUNDEL HOUSE  
MIRIAM POSSIBLE WANTED FOR QUESTIONING OVER MINOR THEFT IN AMERICA STOP SHERIDAN GOW UNCONFIRMED RESEARCH CONTINUING STOP

Fiske pocketed the paper thoughtfully.

"You wish me to arrange for the arrest of Miss Miriam, sir?" Bates asked.

"No," Fiske answered, "no, it's not my job to correct the mistakes of the American authorities, and it is really only Miss Gow of whom I am suspicious."

For a moment, Fiske narrowed his eyes in thought, staring at nothing. Then he nodded to himself, and began, decisively, "Bates, send a reply to keep me updated, and tell them to inform the Committee in Westminster. Advise them that I may need the updates sent to a different location. For myself, I go to discover our American friends' next port of call. If Lipsky is the man I've heard of, this could be quite a coup for Sneyd Hall."

Bates gave a slight bow. "M'lord."

Fiske took a couple of steps, then looked back over his shoulder at his manservant. "Oh, Bates?"

"Yes, m'lord?"

Fiske's sharp eyes softened just a hair, and the barest hint of a smile played across his face. "After you telegraph Arundel, take the night off and find a bloody _bibi_*, won't you? Tomorrow is tomorrow, but I've a feeling king and country shan't fall to ruination overnight."

Bates smiled widely. "Yes, m'lord. Thank you, m'lord."

* * *

_2__nd__ of January 1903_

Delhi Railway Station was quiet, but that was to be expected; it was, after all, 7:30 in the morning. To compound matters, it was 7:30 in the morning the day after the Durbar had opened; parades, celebrations, parties, fireworks and grand Ducal Balls had dominated the previous night, with wine and India Pale Ale flowing freely among many.

Mim had not touched a drop of alcohol, but she had been awake until well after the clocks had chimed three. As such, she was not at her best as she tried to keep up with an infuriatingly bright and perky Sheridan. While the brunette had been awake as long as Mim had been, she seemed full of energy this morning; it was Mim's pet theory that the blasted woman fed off the discomfort of others – or the discomfort of redheaded reporters, at the very least.

The two Americans were catching the earliest train possible, as Sheridan attempted to put as much distance between herself and Fiske as she could; despite the early start, the pair would only arrive in Lahore early the next morning, so it was another journey on a sleeper. Mim glanced into the dining car on the way past; the train was to leave soon, and still there were only a handful of people around.

As Mim and Sheridan found and boarded their car, Mim heard the first blast of a whistle, signalling the train preparing to leave. When they drew level with their compartment, the train started moving; nothing out of the ordinary there. What was unusual, however, was Mim's reaction; her exhausted brain still wasn't firing on all cylinders, and the sudden movement of the floor caused the redhead to overbalance.

The toppling Mim fell onto Sheridan, who had just succeeded in opening the compartment door: Sheridan herself was pushed hard into the door frame, grunting at the impact, and barked, "Watch where you're going!" before shoving Mim back into the corridor.

Mim managed to keep her footing, just, and righted herself before stepping into the doorway, carefully keeping her mouth shut, giving neither a rejoinder nor an apology.

Sheridan was busying herself with her trunk, which had been brought in by the porters and placed under the lower bunk. The thief pulled it out and pushed the lid open.

"We'll be arriving in Lahore early tomorrow morning," Sheridan informed her, "then we get the first train to Peshawar, so get any sleep you need early."

"Of course," Mim answered, eyeing the uncomfortable looking bunks, "and getting all the sleep we need in the hotel was out of the question because...?"

"I told you," replied the brunette, "I want to put as much distance between ourselves and that Fiske man as possible; I don't trust him."

Mim opened her own trunk, at the foot of the bunk, as she shook her head. "I told you, he was being polite. He's English. Englishmen are polite." She shrugged a little. "And anyway, we'll probably never see him again."

"Believe me, Kitten, I'll be overjoyed if that is true, but as the experienced fugitive in this little partnership, I feel duty-bound to inform you that 'probably' doesn't quite cut it in this line of work. You can learn about the true nature of Englishmen in your own time, but that particular rule needs to be learnt immediately."

"Yes," Mim said dryly, "well, I'm not planning on getting used to the lifestyle."

"So my company isn't good enough for Her Highness?" Sheridan asked, mockingly; "In that case, look at it like this: the sooner we get to Peshawar, the sooner we capture Lipsky, the sooner you can swan off back to your perfect little life."

"And a handful of hours this morning is all the time Lipsky needs to slip away?" Mim rejoined, throwing a small bag from her trunk onto the floor and closing the lid again, "Not the months it has taken to get from Middleton to this point, just these few hours?"

"We have already lost days to your sightseeing," Sheridan snapped, "if you wish to capture Lipsky, you might want to put more effort into the chase and less into playing the wide-eyed tourist!"

"Well, perhaps our efforts could be improved," Mim bristled, exhaustion evaporating in favour of anger, "if you actually told me where in hell we are going! So far, for all your promises of finding Lipsky, all you have facilitated is a romp around half the globe fuelled by the never-ending profits from your criminal activities; why should I trust you when every time I ask about our goal you fob me off with a pet name and a joke? Why, come to that, should I believe that you even _want_to find Lipsky?"

Sheridan slammed the lid of her trunk closed and began lifting the few items she had removed onto the top cot, not turning to stare down Mim. "I have my own reasons for wanting Lipsky caught. Anyway, I gave you my word, what more do you want? A promissory note delivered with a freshly baked batch of cookies? And you ask about trust; have I tried to skip out on you in any of the bustling ports we've visited? Did I try to lose you in Delhi's crowds? Have I put a knife or a bullet into you while you slept?" Finally, Sheridan turned to meet Mim's stare with her own, equally heated glare. "Have I ever given you _any_reason not to trust me?"

"You mean apart from withholding our destination from me? And refusing to give me your real name? And dodging any inquiries into your finances? No, I dare say you've been quite as honest as the day is long," Mim replied with heavy sarcasm.

"What does it matter?" Sheridan demanded, throwing her arms up and turning back to her trunk, heaving it off the bottom bunk onto the floor. "I know where we are going, and I am sticking with you until Lipsky is on a boat back to America. You have my word on that, and that should be enough."

"Of course," Mim snorted, half to herself, "I have your word, the word of a criminal and a thief; why on earth should I question that?"

Sheridan, her back to Mim as she leant over her trunk, scowled; yes, she was a criminal, and yes, she was a thief, but she was also a woman with a deeply developed, if slightly twisted, sense of honour. Her word was, as far as she was concerned, binding. She was, in her own fashion, an honest woman.

She was also an impulsive and proud woman.

In a single, sudden, movement, Sheridan straightened up and thrust her right elbow back, dealing Mim a powerful blow to the midriff. Mim staggered back into the wall of the small cabin, as Sheridan swung her left arm out in a wide arc to catch the redhead a second time, but her fist moved through empty air. Despite the winding attack, Mim managed to duck under the fist and roll off the wall, and even threw her own punch into Sheridan's stomach. The blow was far weaker than Mim would have liked, but was at least strong enough to cause Sheridan to stumble, almost losing her balance as the back of her knees met the trunk. Mim straightened herself up and put as much distance of possible between herself and the brunette, but in the cramped quarters that barely amounted to four feet. As Sheridan recovered from the blow, the pair eyed each other carefully, now on an equal footing.

Even if the long dresses they wore had allowed it, the close confines ruled out any kicks, and so the combatants had to rely on their hands as each tried to subdue their opponent. Sheridan found her first renewal dodged and quickly had to block a counter attack, before again trying to go on the offensive. The fight was not of the style of professional pugilists, nor was it the flowing art form of warriors from China or Nippon, but both displayed greater skill than just natural instincts; each was surprised by the other's ability, having long ago convinced themselves that the result of their first meeting was just a fluke.

Finally, Sheridan spotted an opening, and seized it; leaning her body back so that one of Mim's swings just missed her, she grabbed the extended arm and pulled, over balancing Mim to fall onto the lower bed. Sheridan used the falling Mim as a counter weight to bring herself back on balance, before pushing herself down on top of the sprawling redhead, pinning Mim, one hand still holding the reporter's fist above her head, Mim's other hand luckily pinned beneath her own body. Sheridan pushed her free forearm against Mim's throat, not hard enough to choke the other woman, but enough to make Mim pause before trying to extract herself.

For a brief moment that seemed like an age, Mim and Sheridan locked gazes, anger blazing equally in both pairs of eyes, each breathing hard, unsure of how to end their impasse.

A knocking on the door caused the pair to jump, and two heads snapped round to stare at the offending portal.

"Ah... Memsahib?" a slightly nervous Indian voice called from the other side. "Is everything, ah, to your requirement? There is some noise..." the voice pattered out, the porter undoubtedly nervous at disturbing the passengers.

The two Americans looked back at each other for a silent moment, their previous hostility having evaporated, before Sheridan swiftly rolled off Mim, who gently massaged her throat, as the brunette rolled onto the top of her trunk, still laying beside the bed, and called out,

"Oh, no, everything is... is quite satisfactory. No problems, thank you," Sheridan managed to answer, keeping any traces of her shortness of breath from her voice for the brief declaration.

A mumbled response came from the porter, followed by the sound of retreating footsteps. Sheridan glanced over to Mim, who lay on the cot just a few inches away, before pushing herself upright onto her feet, then proceeding to open her trunk to grab a flask of water. She took a few greedy gulps before wordlessly passing the drink to Mim, who followed suit. A moment later Sheridan pushed herself up onto the upper bunk, lying back and staring at the ceiling, hands idly probing for any bruises Mim had left.

As Mim lowered the flask, she gasped through her bruised throat,

"Thanks."

"Don't mention it," Sheridan answered absently, neither of the pair thinking of what they were saying, their mouths running on automatic.

A moment later, Sheridan swung herself off the bunk and landed lightly on the floor. She scooped up the book she had taken from her trunk before pulling open the door to leave. Mim pushed herself up onto her elbows and started,

"Sheridan–"

"Look, Mim," the brunette interjected, "I'll be in the dining car. Get some sleep; we'll capture Lipsky within the week, and then you can go home, and whether you trust me or not will all be academic."

"I didn't–" Mim tried again, but Sheridan had already closed the door behind her. With a groan that only owed part of its existence to her darkening bruises, Mim fell back onto the – as predicted – uncomfortable cot. She had a gnawing feeling that she had done something very stupid, but given how Sheridan had behaved since they had first met, she wasn't entirely sure what it was. With a sigh, she rolled over, and tried to follow Sheridan's advice.

* * *

_3__rd__ of January 1903_

The pair had spent the rest of their journey in an uncomfortable sort of silence, each reminded that they were travelling companions by necessity, not choice. Sheridan had retreated into a shell of indifference in the dining car, and buried herself in a relatively new book that she had "picked up" (Mim decided that she did not want to inquire further) in Delhi (_Kim_, by Kipling), while Mim had busied herself sorting through her myriad notes, trying to get them into a state which would make sense when she was once more firmly ensconced in her living room in Middleton.

The duo finally disembarked in Peshawar, and they made their way to one of the most expensive hotels in the city. For once, Mim didn't question the cost or the source of Sheridan's funds, looking forward as she was to two separate bedrooms; the atmosphere in the cramped train had become stifling. Mim soon found herself with even more room to breathe when Sheridan fled the suite with some half-muttered excuse of "making arrangements."

_The kind of arrangements that consist of a few handfuls of coin to the right people, and an American journalist going missing in the Khyber,_ supplied a voice in her mind; a voice that Mim had been pointedly ignoring ever since it advised against breaking a felon out of prison.

Mim shook her head slightly to dislodge the voice, before striding out onto the balcony of the suite. The view was breathtaking; the ancient city of Peshawar was laid out before her, beyond which the land rose up into the Hindu Kush Mountains, peaks capped with snow. The city itself was something entirely new for Mim as well; the buildings, rather than the intricate work of the Dakshineswar Kail Temple in Calcutta or the Red Fort in Delhi, were more in line with Mim's ideas of Persia, and the lands of the Arabian Nights. Mosques and Minarets dominated the skyline, the calls to prayer heeded not just by the population, but also by many of the myriad traders that constantly moved through the city in a steady stream; Mim had had an image in her head of Peshawar and the Khyber as the edge of civilisation, a constant battleground between the modern world and the medieval, but the reality saw men and goods moving across the border as freely and as prosperously as any other national boundary**(6)**.

Despite the roaring trade, there was one major difference between Peshawar and Calcutta or Delhi; Peshawar was not a centre of Imperial activity. The main British presence were the troops of the North West Frontier Garrison, clothed in khaki battledress rather than scarlet ceremonial outfits, and the men and officers displayed considerably less triumphalism, a trait Mim was beginning to think was a required attitude for any British soldier, than their counterparts in the East; the city, after all, had borne witness to the limits of Britannia's power**(7)**. The great monuments to British Imperialism were far fewer and further between than in the Eastern cities, and the huge expatriate populations of those cities were also missing, with only a comparative handful of administrators and professionals hailing from Europe – along with the garrison, of course. Given Mim's lack of linguistic skills, this all combined to make her feel suddenly very alone; even the great mountains dominating the horizon added to the sense of insubstantiality.

Despite its morally questionable beginnings and ostensible purpose, part of Mim had, until this moment, still managed to fancy this journey a great adventure like those in the dime novels and romances she had devoured as a child: leaving America for the first time, going to sleep only to wake up to an entirely new vista spread out before her, wandering the streets of a city that had been as insubstantial as a theatre set in her previous imaginings... The sheer dreamlike grandiloquence of the whole affair had, for a little while, allowed Mim to fool herself into thinking that the journey had not been born of necessity, was simply a picaresque vacation for the sake of it. It was only now, in the silence of her lonely and alien suite in this lonely and alien city, that the feelings of isolation and alienation and regret and anger and sadness threatened to devour her. Sheridan had told her that their journey by sea and by rail was over; hopefully, that meant Lipsky would soon be brought to justice, and that Mim could return home to all she knew and loved. But right now, Mim just wanted someone beside her, someone to make her feel less alone... anyone...

Mim was brought back to reality by the loud clack of the lock behind her. She heard the door handle thud against the wall as the suite door swung open, and the sound of it slamming shut a moment later, and then she heard Sheridan mutter a stream of expletives directed at whatever beast had dared befoul her third-favorite pair of shoes with its "infernal leavings."

Mim rolled her eyes, wondering idly why the Almighty had even deigned to respond to her prayers if _this_ was the best He could do.

A few moments later, Sheridan emerged from the suite onto the balcony. She paused when Mim didn't so much as grunt a greeting at her, or even turn from the distant mountains to face her. After a moment, Sheridan raised an eyebrow and moved to stand beside the reporter.

"And a very good afternoon to you too," she said, languorously leaning against the balcony balustrade.

"Is it?" Mim shot back, glancing at the brunette. "I'm cold, there's a mist forming, and I am thousands of miles from home, on the run from the law, with a virtual stranger who delights in taunting me my only companion. If this is your definition of a good afternoon, I would hate to share a bad one with you."

A smile tugged at the corner of Sheridan's mouth as both her eyebrows shot up, before she barked out a laugh. "Ha. I get it; Her Highness is in a mood. Well, we'll just have to try and do something to alleviate that, won't we? How do you feel about... shopping?"

Despite herself, Mim turned to face Sheridan, and now it was her turn to raise her brow in surprise.

"Shopping?" she echoed incredulously.

"Uh huh, Kitten," Sheridan nodded, before making a great show of sweeping a critical eye from Mim's face to her toes. "You see, while I'm sure your outfit is just perfect for parties in the sticks, it's not quite the height of fashion in the Safed Koh Mountains."

"Safed Koh Mountains?" Mim asked, aware that she was starting to sound like a parrot, but unable to repress her curiosity.

"Doy, Peaches!" Sheridan exclaimed, throwing a hand up to wave at the peaks nearest the city. "You didn't think we came all the way out here just to find Lipsky hiding in a disused cellar, did you?"

Mim turned to look at the mountains once more, this time with a somewhat different perspective. The Hindu Kush range stretched from horizon to horizon, but the Safed Koh sub-range was the one closest to the city. The peaks had looked daunting before; knowing that she was expected to climb them, they suddenly took on a more ominous cast. But, being a Possible, Mim eagerly felt herself rising to the challenge. She was also smart enough to know that this was probably as close as Sheridan could get to extending an olive branch. Mim looked down at the clothes she stood in speculatively; "No," she said quietly before speaking more confidently, "No, I don't suppose these will do at all."

* * *

It was late evening when the package from the tailors arrived. The shop they had visited was a small one, but not small for lack of funds; rather, it was small because its reputation was such that larger, gaudier premises were not required. The tailor himself was a wizened old man, a local Pashtun whose skill had transcended even the natural snobbery of the British residents of the city, never mind the roaring trade the man evidently did with the residents and merchants.

Mim had spent a good while standing on a stool being poked, prodded and sized up by the tailor, equipped with measuring tape, while Sheridan looked on and made an occasional comment, generally to Mim's detriment. The journalist had awaited her chance to swap positions with the thief with relish, but had been cheated at the last moment; Sheridan herself had merely produced a yellowing receipt from a pocket, and picked up her own package from the storage room, before handing over a bank note and requesting an identical package be created for the next time she required it. Mim wondered how many tailors' shops around the world had near identical packages sitting in their storage rooms, waiting for a pale woman with an ageing receipt to arrive.

Still, at least Sheridan's money was good; the quick arrival of clothing, which would generally take days if not weeks or months to create, was testament to the power of gold. The quality didn't seem to be diminished either, Mim noted, as she took in the contents of the package, now strewn across a table in the hotel suite.

First was the shirt; it was white silk, cut loose enough to allow smooth movement, but close enough to easily wear comfortably under a jacket. The jacket itself was a reddish-brown colour, not too different from Mim's hair, cut in a style similar to that of a riding jacket, and made of a warm wool. A pair of brown boots, reaching to her upper calf, made of supple leather that would allow for easy movement on foot, were to cover her feet, and a pair of brown leather gloves went on her hands. And finally...

Mim held the offending article up at arm's length, to better examine the piece of clothing. Sheridan, reclining easily in a rattan chair on the other side of the table, smirked at Mim's cautious observation.

"What's the matter, Kitten?" she asked, "Never seen a pair of trousers before?"

"A pair of trousers? Yes," Mim answered, not taking her eyes from the black garment; "A pair of trousers I'm expected to wear? Not so much."

It was true. Mim had quite a remarkable record, having helped solve the Warehouse Arson Case, the Missing African Diamond Caper, and any number of other crimes, and she had hardly been inactive while doing so; Mim had driven automobiles, ridden horses, pedalled bicycles, even, as Sheridan could testify to, brawled with criminals, but never had she worn trousers. She had never seen the need, especially since it was scarcely what a well brought up young girl wore. Anyway, she had never felt impeded by her clothing choices, so it had scarcely been an issue; now, however, with a mountain range beckoning, the trousers seemed a more realistic necessity.

Besides, Sheridan had paid for them, so Mim supposed that she couldn't very well simply ignore the advice of the pale woman. Sheridan herself had opened her pre-made package to reveal a similar outfit to Mim's, although the jacket was a dark green, and her long gloves and boots black; Mim had to admit, she was beginning to see a pattern emerging in her companion's wardrobe. What's more, Sheridan's clothing looked as if it would be somewhat tight on the thief, and an uncharitable corner of Mim's mind rather hoped that Sheridan would find that she had grown somewhat since ordering the outfit.

As Mim laid her trousers (_her_ trousers – that would take a bit of getting used to) back on the table, Sheridan pushed herself up from the chair.

"Her Highness is quite satisfied with her attire, I trust?" she enquired with a mock bow. Mim knew better than to try and reprimand the thief, and so raised her head regally and regarded the clothing down her nose.

"It will do, I dare say," she answered grandly.

"I'm delighted," Sheridan retorted, "Now, if you're quite finished with your inspection, I suggest we retire; we're to awaken at seven thirty in the morning."

Mim nodded, eagerly rather than resignedly anticipating the early morning. Given the choice, she always preferred going out and doing something to laying in bed.

A short while later, Mim lay in bed, enjoying having a bed chamber to herself. While the city, like any other city across the globe, never truly fell silent, it was at least calmer than a train carriage, or Delhi during the festivities, and Mim felt a smile touch her lips as she lay back, alone with her thoughts.

Unfortunately, the comparative silence made it easier for unwanted thoughts to creep up on her: her earlier fears of Sheridan turning on her in the hills returned with a vengeance. Mim tried to brush them aside as mere paranoia, but they nagged at her incessantly. Finally, plagued by doubts about her travelling companion, Mim managed to fall asleep: her dreams were not pleasant ones.

* * *

*****_**Bibi**_**: **from the Indian word for mistress, used by Englishmen in India to refer to their native mistress while their wife waits patiently half the world away**  
****(1) The cavalry took appearance very seriously in India, sometimes if only to relieve boredom; there are accounts of British cavalry squadrons in India having competitions for who could produce the best turned out trooper. The chosen man, jacket rigorously cleaned, uniform starched, brass buttons and metal helmet polished to perfection, would be carried from the barracks to his horse by his comrades, just to avoid any dust from the ground marring their perfect presentation**

**(2) It sounds nice and cheery, the patriotic greeting for this regiment, doesn't it? Sadly, the truth is rather darker. A few months earlier, a pair of troopers from the 9th Lancers had beaten an Indian cook to death... after all, he was only an Indian. The officers had basically shrugged at the news, and made no move to punish or discipline them... after all, it was only an Indian. Lord Curzon was furious with this attitude, and tried to come down on the entire regiment like a ton of bricks. Unfortunately, the cavalry regiments of the British military are where, traditionally, the rich and powerful spend their time in the army. The connections the 9th Lancers had in London were impressive, and a lot of powerful people came to their protection... after all, it was only an Indian. The most Lord Curzon, possibly the most powerful single man in the British Empire, was able to do was cancel all leave for the regiment. At the Durbar, the 9th received a loud cheer, partly for their defeat of the Viceroy... after all, it was only an Indian.**

**(3) So far, I think I've described the 1903 Delhi Durbar fairly accurately... but there is surprisingly little information on the event, considering how grand it was, so the Royal Pavilion events are more based on the 1877 Durbar**

**(4) Probably the Aga Khan III, the Imam of the Shia Ismaili Muslims, and an active politician and figure in the Indian independence movement**

**(5) Gin and tonic as a drink was first drunk by the army of the British East India Company and British Army in India... they had to take the tonic water, as the quinine in it prevented malaria... but, being British, they had to have it served with alcohol to convince them to take it... who says binge drinking in Britain is a new thing?**

**(6) Peshawar is, after all, sitting astride one of the more popular routes for the legendary silk road; merchants have been travelling through for centuries, the only change British occupation making was the benefactor of any taxes levelled**

**(7) Peshawar is, of course, close to the border with Afghanistan, and was a major base for the frontier garrison. The British had tried to conquer Afghanistan twice before, leading to the massacre of Elphinstone's army in 1842 and the massacre of Britons in Kabul in 1879**


End file.
